


You Won't Feel A Thing

by surroundedbyhorses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surroundedbyhorses/pseuds/surroundedbyhorses
Summary: Alternate Universe fic. Sherlock is a lawyer from London who travels to New York where he meets war correspondent John Watson. John arrived in New York looking for a proper job after being sent back to London from Afghanistan. War injury. Sherlock Holmes meets the dark side of his past in the city that never sleeps.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some minor changes have been made to strengthen the plot and the characters.  
> Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read and to my wonderful editor and best friend who has to put up with me. Thanks a lot to ThePreciousHeart for a second pair of eyes and for her friendship and patience. She has some marvellous work under her name. Check it out!

**Part One**

**(Sherlock Holmes)**

  
  


_And it's from these ordinary people you are longing to be free._

  
  


November, 2012. Two ruddy years away from London, and I still can’t get used to this city. While the view of the Empire State Building from my window is not bad, I miss the smell of musty furniture and old law and chemistry books. The walls of this flat don’t diffuse my violin’s moans as the ones in Baker Street. Home. God, it’s sheer torture! And then there’s John Watson. He’s actually the reason of my complaint. He always is.

 

John and I met two years ago. I don’t even know how he got the money to fly from London to America. He’d been sent home from Afghanistan a few months prior to our first encounter. War correspondent. An almost recovered wounded shoulder and a really bad, partly psychosomatic limp were the only things he brought to New York— oh, and his scratched-up six-month old mobile phone.

 

“ _Well, that's the real question, Mike,” I asked Mike Stamford as we made our way into the New York Chronicles' publishing headquarters. “Who would want to share a flat with me?”_

 

“ _Oh, come on, Sherlock!”_

 

_Mike had been my junior partner at my legal practice for two years, and my friend for at least five. He looked anything but a lawyer: he laughed to much. But I trusted him. Besides, he served as the practice’s financial adviser, so we killed two birds with one stone._

 

_Mike didn’t feel comfortable playing an important role in the business, but he always made sure to be there every time I had to deal with an important case; and that day in New York, I was about to have a meeting with the devil._

  
“ _I'm not particularly well-known for my good manners when treating people.”_

 

“ _There's probably someone out there dealing with the same inner conflict.” He chuckled. “You'll find someone.”_

 

“ _IF I can get to an agreement with this_ woman _... then I'll worry about getting a proper flatmate.” My lips curled into a sardonic smile._

 

“ _People are not tools, Sherlock. Did you know that?”_

 

_We stopped before the lift._

  
“ _I am aware, yes.” I pulled out my phone to send a message, but the battery was dead. I was tired of my BlackBerry, next time I bought a phone I was going to try with an iPhone. I heard they were quite a choice._ _“Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine’s not working,” I asked him while waiting for the lift to come down._

  
_He felt his pockets. “Sorry, I left mine at the hotel. There's a telephone box right outside the building.”_

 

“ _I prefer texting.”_

 

“ _Here… use mine,” said a man behind us. I turned to face a short-legged man with sandy hair cut in an army style. A soldier? A long-sleeved check shirt hid the contrast between the once sun-exposed skin of his hand and the yellowish white tone of the rest of his arm. He leaned on a cane. He wasn’t American, I couldn’t help but notice. However, it was not clear to me which part of England he came from. But if he spoke a few more words…_

 

“ _Thank you.” Without looking away from the screen, the question slipped out of my mouth, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

 

“ _Sorry?” I expected his reaction, after all… everyone reacted the same. He was polite enough not to tell me to sod off._

 

“ _John.” It was about time; Mike had been staring at the man since he first spoke to me. “John Watson!”_

 

_The man's jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat; obviously, trying to recognise Mike. His eyes switch quickly from Mike to myself. And back to Mike again. He stepped back. And forward. I looked at his shoes._

 

“ _Mike Stamford from LSE… Remember me?”_

 

_His eyes widened instantly. “Oh right, Mike! I’m sorry… I was— how are you?” He said, shaking hands._

  
_Aldershot. He was from Aldershot. And he was also a journalist... A war correspondent? Definitely._

 

“ _Good… I heard about your— experience abroad. How are you?”_

 

_He forced a smile. “Alive.”_

 

_Witty. I raised an eyebrow. While I had always hated journalists, Mr. Watson seemed to be a nice and decent man. My mind wandered for a few seconds. He was a potential flatmate. I would need someone to run the errands, since I didn't have Mrs. Hudson around to do so. Of course, as she would say... she was my landlady, not my housekeeper._

 

_The lift beeped, and the doors opened._

 

“ _Here.” I returned the phone to its owner._

 

_The doors closed again._

  
“ _This is an old friend of mine John Watson,” Mike told me enthusiastically._

 

“ _Do you mind the violin?” I asked him. I had pulled my phone out of my pocket again, and now I was resetting all its content and settings._

  
“ _Sorry, what?”_

 

“ _I like to play the violin while I’m thinking, and sometimes I won’t even pay attention or talk for days. Would you mind that?” I looked at him, after taking out my phone’s SIM card. “It helps that flatmates know the worst about each other.” I grinned._

 

“ _I didn’t say anything about flatmates.”_

 

“ _I know, but I did.” I closed my phone. “I was telling Mike I needed a flatmate a few minutes ago; and now you’re here. An old friend of my friend, who’s just arrived in New York from London after military service in Afghanistan. It isn’t that bad an idea.”_

 

“ _How— how did you know about Afghanistan?” He asked me, but looked at Mike instead._

 

“ _He’s always like that.” I heard Mike mumble._

 

“ _I have in mind a nice place in Midtown Manhattan. Five rooms. Two bedrooms, a study, a large bathroom, uhm— a living room and a full kitchen. I need someone to share it due to my health.” I lied and Mike noticed. Of course I couldn’t tell Mr. Watson that I needed him to run the errands and take care of the flat. The word ‘butler’ wouldn’t have sounded so nice either. I pocked my phone back, decided to throw it into the first waste-paper basket I saw. “You won’t have to pay rent._ _We'll meet there tomorrow evening seven o'clock. Sorry, got to rush. There's still a pact with the devil left to seal.”_

 

_John Watson looked upset. It’s quite difficult to understand human nature when people get angry about the tiniest details or reasonable ideas. The lift beeped again, and the doors opened. Mike followed me inside._

 

“ _And that’s it?” He said, clearly annoyed._

 

“ _I beg your pardon?” I said holding the door._

 

“ _We've just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?”_

 

“ _I think it’s very reasonable.” I forced the door open and walked towards John._

 

“ _We don't know anything about each other. I don't even know your name.”_

 

“ _I know you're a war correspondent, and you were back to London from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who cares about you, but you don’t approve of his alcohol problem, or maybe you don’t like the idea of him getting divorced. You won’t ask for your brother’s help, and you can’t afford London on an army pension, but you were having a difficult time finding a good job there; that’s why you’re here in New York. You like taking risks. Your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, I’m afraid that’s true. I think that’s enough for now, I hope you agree. Send me an email when you’ve made your mind. But I honestly think you’re going to need a place to stay when you get the job.” I looked him in the eye and smiled before stepping back into the lift. “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221bbakerstreet@googlemail.com.” I said as the door closed. “Afternoon!”_

 

“ _Bye, John,” Mike called out. “I don’t think he understood the address,” he told me._

  
_I smiled. “He did.”_

I’m never wrong. I got an email from John the following morning, and two days later we moved in. I could afford the place on my own, but he insisted on putting some money. I used it to buy my  _pills_ . Getting used to living with someone was going to be difficult, so I would need backup. 

  
  


John was always bringing over all kinds of girls, but they all had one thing in common… they yelled in bed like mad women from a mental hospital. It didn’t matter to him that he was now one of the most famous bloggers in America; I kept account of how many nights he got home all pissed, threw up in the toilet, and fell asleep in the bathroom floor. I didn’t care about him, but he didn’t let _me_ think. So I had to take care of his mess every single time.

  
  


I’m married to my work, and John doesn’t seem to take this into consideration. I need silence to focus, and John only needs... telly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's therapist insists that he should write about what happens to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to everyone who reads these silly bunch of paragraphs. Thanks to ThePreciousHeart and to my amazing editor. I always change things after they have edited the chapters. Any mistake or error is is not their fault :)

**Part Two**

**(John Watson)**

 

_Spent the night trying to make a deadline,_

_Squeezing complicated lives into a simple headline_.

 

To: [harry.watson78@hotmail.co.uk](mailto:harry.watson78@hotmail.co.uk)

From: [john_h_watson@hotmail.co.uk](mailto:john_h_watson@hotmail.co.uk)

Subject: Just got a place in New York…

 

Harry,

 

You'll probably never read this email; but according to my therapist, writing about what happens to me will honestly help. The problem is— nothing happens to me.

I spent God knows how many months writing war stories until I became part of one myself. But here I am, one wounded shoulder and a stupid limp later, alive. Leaving London was the most difficult decision I've ever had to make, but it was for my own sake. Getting a job wasn't so easy and I couldn't afford a proper place on an army pension. And then I found that offer for a job in New York and I took the risk. I'm here now… on my second month as a columnist for The New York Chronicles.

Most people write all kind of rubbish in emails. I'm one of them, I believe. A resentful coward who doesn't dare call his own sister, and instead fills his phone with drafts of emails he'll never send. War damages people. Not only external wounds that they'll have to carry for the rest of their lives. It leaves them with the bittersweet feeling of an old debt, and then they become addicts, craving for nothing else than adrenaline. War changed me. And although I refuse to accept that I'm trying to run away from it, I think I really miss it. And it took for a complete stranger to help me realise that. That leads me to Sherlock.

 I'm sharing flats with the weirdest bloke ever. Sherlock Holmes. We met two months ago at the Chronicles' building. He needed to text someone, and his phone wasn't working, so I let him use mine. And that’s it. You actually wouldn’t believe what happened that day. He used my phone and the next thing I knew, Sherlock was reciting my entire life. It was shocking and I really wanted to punch him in the face. Two words, I only said two words and he was able to deduce that I was a war correspondent back from Afghanistan, and that I needed a place to stay in New York when I got the job I was going to be interviewed for. Oh, he thought you were a man, I guess no one is perfect.

He offered me to share a flat and the best thing is that I don’t have to pay rent. Apparently he has some health condition and needs someone around. I’m okay with it, I don’t mind going out to the shops and doing the cleaning. He says he’s a consulting lawyer and that he’s in New York because he has some unfinished business to do. To be honest, I don’t even know when he’s going to solve them, he barely moves from the flat; but I assume that’s good because otherwise I won’t have a place to stay anymore, and I’d really hate having to go look for another flat.

I’ve met a couple of girls, nothing serious yet, but Sherlock doesn’t make things easy either. Living with him is like chewing a cinnamon stick: you can’t really tell if it’s sweet or bitter, but eventually you get used to the taste, even though the little splinters bother you a bit. That’s not probably the best analogy I could have come up with, but you’ll never read this so… Anyway, he can be an annoying dick sometimes, but it’s amazing the way he sees through everything and everyone in seconds. The most skilful detective in the world would be a child in Sherlock’s hands. He is in fact, the cleverest and most intelligent guy I’ve ever met, so much that I was shocked at finding out that he completely ignored the fact that the Earth goes around the Sun…

And that’s everything I have to say for now. I think she was right, my therapist… maybe _something_ does indeed happen.

 

John.

_Draft saved successfully._

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the day Sherlock met John... This time he meets his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who takes their time to read this. After this chapter, as all the main characters has been introduced, the story will undergo a change of format. 
> 
> Thanks to my editor and to ThePreciousHeart for their patience and help.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Part Three**

**(Irene Adler)**

  
  


_I think we're doomed_

_And now there is no way back_

  
  


“Sherlock Holmes,” I whispered.

 

His name tasted like strawberry jam on my tongue. Thick and sweet. I stood by the crystal window of my office, gazing at the city. What could be greater than this city? Or  _who_ ? I smiled at the thought as I sensed light but yet firm footsteps behind me. A living thought. I didn’t even hear the door being opened, I just felt his presence. His scent lingered in the air; I closed my eyes and took a deep breath so I could fill my lungs with him. 

 

Sherlock Holmes. 

 

My eyes snapped open, and raised an eyebrow. 

 

_The game is on._

 

I turned to face the man, and each of us stood in complete silence. He cut an imposing figure, one that reminded me of the Empire State building. Or better, the inside of Grand Central Station. Sherlock Holmes was a wonder of the modern world. Many years and men had passed, but I still would had killed to run my hands through that unruly mop of dark hair as I made him beg for mercy in his own bed. I’d heard that he already knew New York like the back of his hand… but there was still a place left to  _investigate_ , and I would lead him in the right direction.

 

If anyone had asked me what Sherlock Holmes looked like, I'd say he resembled an intact ancient marble statue. Unique features. Long and narrow face with wild, diamond-shaped eyes, and cheekbones like razor blades. Always contemplating his victory, Mr Holmes was well-known for his unbreakable self-confidence. Everyone had feared the  _freak_ from Oxford’s Law School back in our college days. Not me. I had always seen through him the same way he saw through everyone else. I had always been one step ahead of the great Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Mr Holmes.” And the ice was broken.

 

“Ms Adler.” He nodded, and his voice sounded like the heart-breaking notes of a saxophone played in the stillness of the evening. He was probably the most reserved person in the world, outside some Buddhist monastery, and I figured that some things would never change. But again, everything he would have said had been already written in his sharp, dark sea green eyes.

 

“I’m glad you came. I must admit it's surprising how long it took you to open the door.” He didn't move or even blink; I could only notice his full lips dancing to the rhythm of his words.

  
“Brevity is the soul of wit.” He walked slowly towards my desk. His hand hovered over some papers. And hastily he looked at me. “Why am I here?” He knew; he always knew.

 

“Same old habits. Do you still smoke while reading Shakespeare?” My moves were swift as I walked and stood behind him. 

 

“Irene...” he spoke but my breath became words that grazed his in an attempt to stop him.

 

“Those are not proper manners, Holmes, don't you think?” I whispered against his neck. His full body tensed and I could see it in the way he shoulder blades tightened defensively. “Sit down, please.”

 

I watched him walk silently to the chair and sit. I kept quite, for I wanted to enjoy his presence. Breathe the same air.

  
“I’m certain you didn’t make me come all the way from London just to stare at my neck. I’m a very busy man and I would appreciate—”

 

“Oh, I know. But I don’t need to tell you the reason you’re here, do I, Mr Holmes?”

  
He took a deep breath.

 

“A few weeks ago it dawned on you that you knew this freak from college who used to be mocked because all he had to do was to look at the insufferable prats he had for classmates, to be able to tell their whole lives’ stories. That’s why I’m here. There’s someone out there who stole your most valuable possession. That someone has been making threats. You’re a well-known journalist and also an important public figure, and there’s something in that phone that you don’t want the world to see… or hear. For some reason you thought it was going to be a good idea to have the freak fly to New York and hire him as your private detective. Unfortunately, Ms Adler, I have to decline your offer.” He stood up and buttoned up his jet black jacket. He turned to face me. “I’m not a detective, I’m a lawyer.”

 

“I must say I’m impressed. But again, you always loved playing this game. You got better. How did you know it was a phone?”

  
“Your phone is new and expensive, iPhone’s latest model.” He looked at the phone lying on my desk. “It came out a month ago. However, it’s a bit neglected already. It means that you haven’t been very careful with it— it’ll get worse in a couple of weeks if you keep letting it fall and don’t buy a proper case. The power connection gives you away, though. Almost intact. You don’t charge it often. You decided to keep it on airplane mode and insist that your secretary takes all messages for you.”

 

“I could be just careless and dislike technology.” I cocked an eyebrow. Challenging Sherlock Holmes had always been one of my very few and true pleasures.

 

“You’re a journalist, you’re not careless. You're using your own Apple's latest MacBook Pro, and your six-year-old Mp3 player is as good as new. It means that you care about technology, but you're very attached to your possessions. You've always taken care of your own messages. Your amount of tweets per hour is considerable and you update your Facebook status multiple times a day. That proves that you are in fact pretty tech-savvy. Two weeks ago you lost your BlackBerry. Your life was in that phone—” 

  
“Is…” I snapped. The idea he was implying was terrifying, and I didn't want to think that I had lost that phone forever. Only the God I don't believe in knew what would happen if its content was shown to the world.

 

Sherlock continued. A slight smile threatened to tug at the corner of his lips. He was definitely enjoying himself. “Yes. As I said before, you're not careless, so it must have been stolen by someone really close to you, someone you trusted. There aren't many people you trust, Ms Adler. You know who did it, but for some reason your hands are tied; that’s why you’re angry. And I don’t blame you.” There was a few seconds of silence, but we didn't break eye contact. “In any case, you didn’t want to be constantly reminded of your lost phone... so you changed brands.”

 

I would have had that man right there on my desk, until he begged for mercy… twice.

 

“You don’t like to kill time, do you? What about my secretary? How did you know about the messages?” I asked.

  
“She was angry at herself for forgetting to pass on my message changing the day of our meeting.” His voice was almost mechanical. There were times in college when I'd wondered if he was some sort of machine. “She’s not used to this go-between tasks. She’s always been here to bring your coffee and hang your coat, this change has her upset. She's not new, in fact she's been working for you for five years.”

 

“She told you that as well?”

 

“No, she didn’t. She has five different framed pictures from The Chronicles' Christmas parties on her desk: 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010. The same two people appear next to her in each picture. One of them is you, which means that she chooses her friends carefully, and once she does, she expects the friendship to last forever. What a simple, tiny mind!” He rolled his eyes. “You reprimanded her because you're angry at your choice of avoiding telephone calls and texting after the loss of your phone. She'd never failed doing her job and she’s your friend— one of the few people you trust here, in fact. But you put a great deal of responsibility on her shoulders, that's why you’d never said anything when she’d forgotten to pass on any other messages, but my presence here yesterday was important to you. Not as important as your lost phone, or you would have kept yourself available, at least through texts. And it makes you feel powerless because deep down you acknowledge it was your fault and not your secretary's. So I'm here because you want that phone back and then you want to see the person who stole it rot in jail." 

 

"I want him to  _burn_ in hell."

 

“ _Him_? Interesting. So I was right… You know the person indeed.” He cleared his throat. “Who?”

 

“I can’t tell you.” 

 

“Well, this meeting lasted longer than I expected. Normally I’d have left the room five minutes ago. _Au revoir_!”

 

I felt the need to stop him before he got to the door, but I couldn't give away too much information. However, I knew there had to be something that made him stay. Something. 

 

“You know him.”

 

He stopped. He just stopped and considered turning around. Sherlock Holmes was not a man that looked behind, but he did then. 

 

“I can’t tell you who it is. I’ll be dead by tomorrow if a single letter of his name comes out of my mouth.”

 

“Write it down.”

 

“What?” 

 

“You said you couldn’t tell me… Write it down so I can read it.”

 

I didn't think twice before I sat at my desk and grabbed a pen. I thought I’d hesitate, but the name wrote itself and only by looking at it I felt suffocated; the memory of that man tightened like a rope around my neck. Holmes’ gaze weighted on me before I handed him the piece of paper. Only the name could turn the sheet into ashes, but Sherlock was cold and sharp like the tip of an iceberg. He could extinguish the hellish feeling. 

 

He read, and his expression changed instantly. I’d never seen him react to something with that mix of fear and anger. His eyes looked like spherical paperweights, but instead of water, they held a burning flame within. And that flame was almost as dangerous as the name on that piece of paper. 

 

_Emotion_ .

 

If there was anything I knew about Sherlock Holmes was that he didn’t manage emotion very well, and he shielded himself by saying that sentiment was a chemical defect. Maybe he was right; maybe he had always been. Dilated pupils, frowning, and lips tensed like violin strings. Sherlock Holmes was scared. He looked at me, and I figured he wanted to lighten the burden. He swallowed and read out loud. 

 

“Professor James Moriarty.”


End file.
